Forged Memories

[Serrus]

"I've seen your type before," Grellyn said with a grunting voice of disapproval. "All you vagabonds and ne'r do wells from near an' far comin' into Myrken, lookin' like you was the next best bloody thing since the wall went up, all smug and overconfident. You all end up the same way." He tapped the round edge of his hammer against the glowing amber of a forging blade's tang, the chime of wrought iron singing softly from the anvil below it. Hot metal sparked through the dim light and fell into darkness.

Serrus sat on an old battered chair, leaning against the small corner confines of the forge, chair propped on two legs. He had a lazy look about him, his feet crossed against the wall, one hand resting on a nearby workbench, the other wound against the pommel of his sheathed blade. All around him, the amber orange light of the forge brightened and dimmed with each heaving breath of the the bellows, moving in rythym to the journeyman who fanned them. Heat seared through the air in all its fury, making each breath a tiring effort, wetting a man's skin so slick of sweat that it could scarcely be felt to the touch. At the back of the room, a half-bred elf would appear every so often to feed the hot coals and sweep away the shards.

He watched the smith work with a distant gaze, taking heavy breaths at each moment, doing his best to ignore a room he thought was better suited for creatures from the hottest depths of the nine hells. Grellyn's hammer rang, tapped and rang, tapped and rang, the glowing blade folded over and over, worked away with meticulous precision, layer by layer, fold by fold.

"Yeah, I seen ya's alright, day in, day out," Grellyn went on. "Year after bloody year. Sayin' you're a warrior, the strongest in your tribe. That you're the sneakiest of all thiefs, the deadiest of all assassins, the most honourable of all knights, the most sort after freerider or sellsword or mercenary, or what 'ave you." He snorted. "Sayin' you'll rescue the maiden from that terrible drake, that you'll protect the innocent from the demon horde, you'll kill those damned Orcs. An' you'll say that you don't need the Constabulary 'cuz you can lay waste to them brigands all by yourself, or you'll save this town from the clutches of whatever evil has come forth form the depths."

Grellyn glanced upwards, lowering a pair of tongs with thick leather gloves. The glowing steel was clasped, steady, illuminating Grellyn's tanned face and sullen scowl. He was a mountain of a smith, like so many of his trade. Bronzed skin and blackened hair, much of which had been scorched away, and a voice to match the bellows he worked in. "And you know how you all end up?" he said. "Dead, that's what. Each and every one of you. Dead as a fucking doornail." He dropped the molten metal into the quenching pan. Hot oil hissed, vapours rose, and the air was filled with the rank stench of corrosion.

Serrus remained as he was, slouching. A wan smirk formed over his hardened stubble. "Aye, well I guess your town gravedigger's been a busy man, then."

Grellyn snorted. "Hah! A funny man! A funny man with good steel." He watched the metal in the pan carefully, waiting for the right moment. The timing of such was always a fine line between masterwork and disaster. "Well then, funny man, maybe I'll be meltin' yours down to join the others soon enough. Then I'll be rememberin' the funny dead man and his good steel." With deft hands, the tongs clasped the quenched iron, raising it from the liquid to place it carefully over the cooler tempering fires, where the coals did not burn so brightly. He glanced to his right. "Arris, you whetted the man's knife yet?"

In the darkened corner of the forge stood Grellyn's apprentice, his fingers resting against the steel blade of Serrus' dirk as it scraped against the grindstone. Soft sparks glistening through the air with each pass. Arris was younger, but the toils of his labour had worked him into a broad stature, with strong arms of sinew. "Not yet," he replied.

"Well get a bloody move on!" Grellyn snapped. "The funny man's gotta bugger off someplace an' get himself killed, so I can have his steel."

The sellsword turned towards the swordsmith with cold eyes, his mind filling with thoughts of ill-intent. Normally he'd be quick to leap up and drive a dagger to the man's neck for his remarks, but Arris held his dagger for the moment. The heat was stifling, too, and each heaving breath from his lungs seemed to suck the life out of him. Besides, the swordsmith's skill with a forge seemed as good as he'd been informed, and a battered or dead smithy was no good to anyone. So he turned away to watch the apprentice work away on his dirk, the lids of his eyes lowering slightly.

"Arris don't know what's good for him," Grellyn sneered, eyes glancing at his apprentice harshly. "Thinks he's got it rough, he does. Thinks it's a hard man's work, he does. Hard work, what a bleedin' goat's arse." He turned the tempering metal over, steam rising up the flews into the ether. "When I was your age, lad, we didn't 'ave no dwarven contraptions. No belts or gears to work the grindstone pump from the river. All we had was a trestle, and we had to lie down on our gut every time we needed to whet." He snorted. "One of the lads sneezed when he was grindin' a longsword one day. Got half his face scraped off. Hah! A right laugh, it was."

But Serrus wasn't listening to Grellyn, or the following exchanges of banter spoken between master and apprentice. He found something soothing in watching them work, tiring his eyes, the rhythms of the hammering somewhat hypnotic. He gazed at the dirk grinding against the stone. How long had he carried that dagger for? How long had it been since she'd given it to him? Ten years? Fifteen? Twenty, even. His mind began to wander, lids fluttering as sweat trickled down his face, the heat drowsing him. Slowly, little by little, the dim sparks of steel against stone became a blur of an orange dusk, the scraping sound now the soft hiss of northern winds blowing against dried grass. The glowing amber light of the furnace became a golden sun, blazing as it sank behind the Palloside Mountains to the west.